The blog about Max and his little brother, Miles. Stunningly cute boys and future leaders of the rebel forces.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Bad Dreams Bears

I don't remember my dreams with anything approaching regularity. So, when I do, it makes them seem pretty significant. When I have the exact, same dream two nights in a row and I remember it both nights, it's a cause for concern. Ze dreem, you zee, ve must anal-lice ze dreem. Later, ve get to your mother, first, ze dream.

Short and sweet: in the dream, I'm casually going out to the backyard. (But, it's not my backyard (you know the drill)). I go down the stairs of our little stoop. I'm taking out the garbage? Going to the garage to check the oil in the 960? Who knows? It's fairly moonlit; a nice night. I'm walking down the sidewalk and I hear a familiar sound, but I can't figure out why it's familiar. I can't figure out why I'm thinking of Dan Haggarty. I look to my left and I, yeah, it's not Mad Jack and Old Number 7 making the deep, guttural noise. It isn't a Wookie either: It's Gentle Ben, sans the "Gentle" and substitute with "Giant" and "Killer". The bear turns towards me with an angry grunt, "A toy!" and I double back, running towards the house. I hear the breath of the bear as he begins to accelerate towards me. I know the next thing I'm going to feel are claws on my back and the sensation of flying. In my head, I wonder what it'll be like to be eaten alive by a bear. But I make it to the stairs and . . . . I wake up, scared shitless. I roll over in the dark and, in the dim light, I see the outline of my wife's four-days overdue baby baking belly.